


Nellie McGuire and The Green-Eyed Lieutenant

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 18:26:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18078692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Lieutenant Craig Garrison tried always to remember to hold the line, to remember he was an officer and a gentleman.  To set the proper example for his wayward crew, no matter how they might ignore his good example. Yet, there had been a certain dark, lonely night.  A night Nellie McGuire would never mention, but would never forget.  A night Craig Garrison would never mention, hopefully would never remember at all.





	Nellie McGuire and The Green-Eyed Lieutenant

**Author's Note:**

> Main story set sometime before "Out of the Darkness Comes the Dawn"

The war was over, Nellie's George was home, and she was ever so glad! Those who'd been away had been a little taken aback by the continued presence of the men from up Mansion way. That included her husband George, at least at first. Jake and Lou had been good friends with George, though, and right off explained the part the lieutenant and the guys from the Mansion had played here at home, the good they'd done, the harm they'd been able to prevent. Because of that, instead of letting Doby wind him up about the men, the village troublemaker thinking to cause some ill feelings, George actually went out of his way to shake hands and offer his thanks for their efforts on her part and Josie's. Garrison and his men seemed to look a little surprised; they weren't all that used to being thanked, it seems. 

Yes, Dobie had made a special point of trying to cause a little friction, jealousy in George, over the lieutenant, but luckily that didn't happen. 

Yes, to her mind Craig Garrison was exceedingly attractive, had thought that the moment she'd laid eyes on him when he first got to the village. Yes, she'd made the comment to Josie once or twice that if she ever WAS to go looking, Craig Garrison might be a prime treat, and Josie had agreed, said she wouldn't have minded a few bouts with the owner of those pretty green eyes either. 

Of course, they agreed, neither was going to happen. Nellie was staying firm to her waiting for her George to come home, and Josie had to be content with the attentions of the other men, since the Yank lieutenant didn't, it seems, at least not locally. Everyone knew that.

Well, there had been that one night . . .

 

Nellie had not been looking forward to the night; it was one of the late ones at the pub, though not one of the busiest usually, and she was in a slightly down mood. Her father wasn't especially perky, and she'd considered switching off with Josie, but Josie had worked the past two nights and was wanting to wash her hair and do some laundry and such, so Nellie hadn't even asked. She HAD asked Josie to come over and stay the night with her father and the boys; they'd have already had their dinner, but a dozing old man with a fondness for his pipe and two young boys alone was something better off avoided if possible. Josie had been fine with that; she'd done the same many a time. Nellie might head home after closing, but was just as likely to stretch out in one of the rooms overhead to catch a few hours sleep.

He'd looked aloof, at first, off at that small corner table, distant, focused on the small book in his hands, on the drink in front of him. He'd nodded in return to a few greetings from the others around him, but there was nothing that indicated he was looking for company. 

"He's alone tonight?" she'd asked, curious.

"Yes, seems his guys are up in London, a forty-eight hour leave. Hope they leave the place standing!" Jake had laughed.

Nellie had scolded, "now, Jake! They're not bad lads, you know that!"

"Yes, well, all I'm saying is there's probably some poor bartender in London gonna be faced with a lot of breakage before it's over. Surprised he didn't tag along, at least to be handy if he's needed, especially after that last time."

"Looks a little peaky, to me," Nellie commented, looking at the blond lieutenant more carefully. "Saw his jeep outside Doc Riley's place this afternoon."

"Well, you know how it is, Nellie. They go out, they come back and usually it's one or more of them what's gotten bunged up. This time looks like maybe it was him. Ah, that's him signaling for a refill; he's drinking whiskey, Nellie. Can you handle him, then see what that table of soldiers need?"

She'd taken him the refill, getting an absentminded smile of thanks in return. He seemed intent on the book he was reading, and she took a quick glance. 'Sun Tzu and the Art of War'. 

She remarked to Jake, "you'd think he gets his fill and more of war, without reading about it in his off hours."

Jake shrugged, "always aiming to improve, that one. Takes his job serious, worries about it, that and his men. Even Gil Rawlins remarks on it. Still, I agree, you'd think he could find something more relaxing to read over a drink."

She refilled his glass next trip around, took a glance at the book as she did so. {"Page 96. He was on 80 last time I looked. Seems slow going."}. She saw him swallow a pill he'd shaken out of a small bottle he'd taken from his pocket, wondering how he could down that with just a gulp of whiskey like he did.

It was an hour later when she passed behind him again, Jake having taken care of the floor for awhile while Nellie tended to snacks in the kitchen. {"Page 105. Now, there's slow going and NOT going!"}. She got back to the bar with another order for drinks from the soldiers at the big round table, a request Jake denied, "no, they've had more than enough. I'll send them on their way. I don't want the MP's down on us cause they cracked up their jeep on the way back." Surprisingly, he got little argument, and the laughing men were out and gone.

Now, when she looked back at that table in the corner, the lieutenant didn't seem so much aloof as perhaps remote, no, maybe even a little forlorn. If the O'Donnell miss had been around, Nellie might have called her, had her come keep him company; the girl had seemed to have adopted the lads, and at least seemed to think kindly of their leader. But she was off on whatever it was she did when she wasn't here in Brandonshire. If his men had been at the Mansion, she might have tipped the wink to Actor, at least, but they weren't. Now, the longer he sat there, the more she came to feel sorry for him.

The last of the stragglers had moved on, Jake was glancing at the clock, then at Garrison, then back at the clock. He'd sighed, put down the bar cloth and started over, but Nellie, acting on impulse, put her hand on his forearm. 

"No, Jake. It's alright. You head on home. I'll let him read just a little more, then see him to rights. I'll lock up, don't you worry." 

She'd gotten a curious look, but Jake had had a long day and a long night, and that offer was one he wasn't in the mood to refuse.

"If you're sure, Nellie. If it was anyone else, maybe I'd say it was a bad idea, but with him, well . . ." 

She smiled, "aye, always the gentleman, he is. There's nothing to be concerned about, Jake. Go on."

The place was empty, Jake closing the door behind him, and she'd locked it from the inside, not wanting to deal with any last minute customers. Picking up another glass and the bottle of whiskey, she'd made her way over to where Craig Garrison sat, oblivious to the now empty room, still reading his book. She took a glance, {"page 96. Now he's going backwards, poor lad."}

She'd poured herself a drink, refilled his glass, then reached out and gently pulled the book away. He let it slip out of his hands entirely before he realized she was even there.

How they got on the subject of his grandmother, Nellie wasn't quite sure. Well, she'd lost her train of thought a few times during the wandering conversation. 

Now, he was leaning back in his chair, faint smile on his face. "And she always listened. And I could tell her anything, things I'd never have told my parents. I remember when I told her about the brownie I'd seen at the back of her garden, she'd just nodded, like there wasn't anything odd about that at all. Told me there was, certainly, and more than one. Asked me to describe the one I'd seen, and she'd tell me which one it was. "I've met most of them, I think," just as if that was the most normal thing in the world, spotting brownies or elves or fairies and the like in the tangle of plants in the garden. My mother would have paddled me for lying, sat me on a chair in the corner to teach me not to 'tell wild tales'; my father's approach would have been a lot harsher. But for her, it seemed having a six-year old describe the small creature he'd caught a glimpse of in behind the rose bushes was something special that she was pleased I was willing to share with her."

"And is she still alive, your grandmother? You must miss her a great deal, being here in England," Nellie ventured, sipping at her whiskey.

"No, she's not; I lost her when I was twelve. And, yes, I do, still, a great deal. Just having someone who'd listen, understand, not pass judgement . . ." His voice trailed off, and he frowned and reached for his glass, only to find it empty. 

He reached for the bottle, but Nellie put her hand on his. "I think you've had all you need for tonight, don't you?"

She could see the lost look in his eyes, "Goniff says the whiskey keeps the demons away. I never found it did that, but sometimes, it keeps the dreams away."

"Dreams?"

He nodded, "dreams of what you want and don't have, dreams of what you're supposed to want but don't, dreams where you're searching and you don't know what you're searching for but you know you can't stop til you find it, whatever it is. Dreams can be as bad as demons, did you know that, Nellie?"

Yes, he'd definitely had enough to drink.

"Come along, Lieutenant. Let's get you upstairs; I think you might better do that while you can." 

He hadn't protested as she urged him to his feet, was even rather steady on his feet as she guided him up to the small back room, sat him down on the side of the bed, removed his shoes and jacket. It was with a deep sigh that he lay back, then turned on his side facing her. 

"You aren't leaving, are you?" he asked, and there was a note in his voice that tugged at her. She could almost hear the sound of her George in his voice, but just as much, the tone of her oldest boy, just turned six. Come to think of it, Adam had spoken to her about a gnome he thought he saw in the forest, told her the other boys had teased and told him he was silly, that he'd just seen a squirrel, and how Adam had come to her for reassurance. She remembered putting her arms around him, hugging him close, whispering words of comfort, of encouragement, telling him not to let the others spoil the wonder of what he'd seen.

Somehow she found herself laying next to the young American lieutenant, offering words of comfort, encouragement, drawing a soft laugh from him at some foolishness. He'd sighed deeply, moved forward, his forehead bent forward against her cheek, his reflected heat drawing her closer.

They talked on, about nothing, about everything, him telling her things he never would have, without the whiskey, without the darkness, things she knew she'd never repeat to anyone else. She make a mental note, like another woman would not too many months later, to caution him that he perhaps revealed a little more than he should of overly personal matters when he'd had too much to drink. {"Blond hair, mischievious blue eyes, sly grin . . . And oh, that longing in his voice! Yes, you need to be very, very careful, my boy."}. 

In the dimness of the room, she could see that longing repeated in his green eyes, the need, and she'd been tempted to ease that longing, that pain, if that was possible.

This couldn't happen again, she knew that, them lying so close together. Well, it wasn't likely to, now was it? Events had just fallen into place this one night, a night that would never be repeated.

But, there had been that one, teensy tiny moment when she'd felt the heat start to build, that tiny shudder that told her she was responding in a way not at all conducive to her notion to keep herself for her George.

She'd felt the heat, the dampness, the warmth of him in her arms, this time not fighting the urge to drop a warm kiss on his hair, let her arms settle round him. She'd relaxed, let herself feel like a woman again, a woman who had the full attention of a very desirable man, (even though she wasn't sure he realized who she truly was at this stage), and her resolve waivered.

They'd been laying side by side, facing each other, still talking in little more than whispers, and she was wondering to herself again at just how attractive he was. 

Then the words stopped. Time, fate trembled, just as she did, and she felt the silence close in. The adoring glow of wonder in his eyes, the relaxed smile, that faint whisper that she couldn't quite make out but knew it wasn't HER name and had a good notion of whose it was, his one hand reaching out to stroke the side of her face, slide down her neck, then to her shoulder. And . . . 

And his hand just stayed there, suddenly as heavy as lead, and when she pulled away to look at his eyes, they were rapidly glazing, the smile getting more and more vague, and she recognized that look.

Ah yes, the terribly sweet, far too brief endearing moment between "I feel just so WONDERFUL!!" and the next step of snoring and drooling. To be followed, next morning, by the groaning and gagging and head-clutching, and "oh, god, I swear I'm never going to drink that much again!" 

Nellie swallowed hard, clenched her legs tight and told her netherparts to behave themselves and right away, if you please. Sent up a few blessings too, at the intervention of Fate. Well, her mind did. Her body was still throwing around a few curses and blasphemies, but it would get over it. After all, at what point would he have realized, pulled back? That wouldn't have been a good ending to the night, surely.

Sighing, she slid away, pulled extra covers from the closet and covered the peacefully slumbering man, and started to leave. Then, on second consideration, she went and put the basin on a chair right by the bed; likely he'd need it!

In the morning, she'd knocked on the door, to greet a wan-faced Craig Garrison, sitting on the side of the bed, walked over and twitched open the curtains with one hand.

"Thought you might like some coffee before you head back to the Mansion. We don't keep anything much on hand for breakfast here at the pub, you know." 

Her voice was kind and pleasant and low, but she could tell from the wince that hit his face that she must sound like she was shouting. Oh, yes, definitely one of those "I'll never drink that much again" moments!

His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and he was looking at her with more than a little apprehensive. "The pub? That's where I am?"

"Yes, of course, in one of the rooms upstairs," she told him, in a matter of fact voice, setting the mug of coffee on the lamp table beside him.

"Should I ask why, or how, or . . ." and then his eyes widened and he flushed, "or . . ."

She laid a motherly hand on his shoulder, gave it a good pat. "You just got involved in your book downstairs, Lieutenant Garrison, forgot and had a few more drinks than you realized. Our fault, really; should have kept better tabs on you, you being alone like that. Everyone else had already left, Jake had already gone home, before I realized how top-lofty you really were. You weren't fit to drive, and though I thought about calling Sergeant Major Rawlins, didn't think you'd want any up at the Mansion to see you like that, you know. Quite biddable you were, though, to my suggesting you spend the night here. Helped you up the stairs and get all settled in for the night." Yes, all nice and casual like, that was the ticket.

He looked at her through slightly narrowed eyes, though whether that was because of the light in the room, his aching head, or a faint memory, she wasn't sure.

She smiled reassuringly, "now you just drink the coffee Grandmother Nellie brought you, get yourself tidied, and take off before Lou shows up. Oh, and your book's on the bar downstairs."

He did give a faint grin and snorted, "Grandmother Nellie. What are you, Nellie, thirty, thirty one?"

The tall raw-boned brunette laughed, "thirty-three next July, Lieutenant. But being a Grandmother has more to it than an age, you know. It's more a state of mind, both in the one doing the grandmothering and the one being grandmothered. Now, get moving. Get that coffee down you, slow now, you want it to stay down, and then be on your way. I need to get this room straightened up again, and aired out."

That next grin was a full blown one, "yes, Grandmother, right away."

She'd busied herself doing all that she'd left undone last night, getting the pub in order for opening later. He'd come down the stairs very carefully, like he thought they might decide to throw him off if he wasn't careful. She was very careful to keep the smile one of kindness, not amusement, at his plight. Watching him drive off, very slowly, she shook her head, wondering at herself. Still, somehow, it had been a night she would always remember, a night of remarkable sweetness. 

"Of course, still need to drop him a hint about overdoing the whiskey. Not a good idea, no, not at all!"


End file.
